


Soup, No Sandwich

by Liadt



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Colds, Fandom Stocking 2016, Gen, Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: The Master has been caught by UNIT and Jo and the Doctor go to visit him. Surprisingly, Jo has a gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nenya_kanadka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nenya_kanadka/gifts).



Jo bounded along the utilitarian corridor.

“Wait for me, Doctor!” she called.

The Doctor slowed his pace for her. “Jo, what is it you’re waving around?”

“It’s a flask of chicken soup.”

“Chicken soup? This isn’t a picnic.”

“I brought it for the Master.”

“Why on Earth and other planets should you do that?”

“For him to drink. And you can’t claim it's dangerous to Time Lords because I saw you put away most of Benton's roast chicken dinner, he cooked for us in his new flat. I didn't get so much as a wishbone.”

The Doctor ran a finger around his collar in embarrassment. It was an excellent roast: Benton was wasting his time in the army, in his opinion. “That’s no reason to bring soup for the Master.”

“I know he's pure evil and deserves to be locked away for a very long time, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Time Lords don't take to colds well. I'm glad I can take an aspirin and he looks pathetic, not at all masterful. And it is Christmas, almost.”

“Very well, but we Time Lords aren’t easily disposed of as you may have observed. I’m of the opinion he's putting it on.” 

“At the end of the corridor was a sturdy, steel door guarded by two burly soldiers. The Doctor and Jo fished out their UNIT passes. Although the guards knew them, they were following the Brigadier's orders on security to the letter. The Master had slipped out of the Brigadier's hands once too often and he wasn't taking any chances. Passes duly checked, they were allowed into the Master's cell. It was a joyless, grey cubicle. There were no windows and the only light came from a bulb in the ceiling. The Master was perched on the edge of a bed, which was bolted to the wall. At his foot was a wicker bin full to the brim with tissues. He was a sorry sight, with his red rimmed eyes and nose. It didn't stop him from trying to rally when the Doctor came in. 

The Master sat up straight. “Ah, my dear Doc-atchoo!”

His guests took a step back; it was an impressive sneeze. 

“I’ve borough you a Thermos of chicken soup,” said Jo. She gingerly moved nearer to the Master to put the flask on to the table that was riveted to the floor. She crossed her fingers and hoped she wouldn’t catch his cold. 

The Master blew his nose. “Thank you, Miss Grant, however my nutritional needs are being adequately taken care of. I am served three poorly conceived meals a day. I’m told they are the same as the soldiers eat. I'm surprised they haven't revolted yet.”

“It’s to make you feel better,” said Jo.

The Master eyed the Thermos.

“Chicken soup is well known as being good for colds,” added Jo.

“And you belong to one of the more advanced Earth societies? If you’ll excuse me, I'll put my trust in medicine prescribed by real doctors. Although, I can't make much use of backward, human medicines.”

“If you want to keep on adding to your tissue mountain that’s up to you,” said Jo.

“I apologise for offending you, in my current state, I forget how it feels to have your enemy refuse your gift.” The Master looked at the Doctor meaningfully. 

“An offer of becoming the dictator of half the universe is no boon,” said the Doctor.

“Please, don’t raise your voice.” The Master winced and lifted his hands to his ears.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Oh really -,” he began.

**

“Lethbridge-Stewart was giving serious consideration into finding if he could bring back capital punishment in your case,” said the Doctor. His interview with the Master had not gone well, not that he’d expected to get any useful information from his fellow Time Lord.

“Trapped on this dreary planet with humans for company, I would have preferred the alternative,” said the Master. After drinking Jo’s soup, he had perked up.

“I don’t think there’s any point in carrying on this interview,” said the Doctor.

“You will, Doctor, you’re the only one who can be trusted around me. Can't you?” said the Master, and smirked.

“You can’t hypnotise me any longer and I'm not only one,” said Jo. “So you may as well find something else to do, like this.” Jo took a slim, rectangular package wrapped in Christmas paper out of her coat pocket, and put it on the table. “It’s a Christmas present. Don't open it until the 25th December.”

**

Later as they returned to the Doctor’s laboratory, the Doctor’s curiosity got the better of him. “Jo what was in that package?”

“A book.”

“I’d guessed by the shape, but what sort of book?”

“Oh, just an old science fiction novel by HG Wells, 'The Time Machine’, to keep him amused. I couldn’t give him a copy of 'The War of the Worlds'.” Jo gave the Doctor an impish grin. “You know how that ends.”

“I don’t know, it might do him some good to read it!”

“I could always get it him for his birthday. Do Time Lords celebrate birthdays?” asked Jo, anxiously. She would like to plan a surprise cheese and wine party sometime for the Doctor and not celebrating birthdays was a pretty gloomy concept.

“I think the Master likes to think of himself as forever three hundred and twenty one.”


End file.
